Billy and the Bearman. David A. Poulsen
the radio on, and for awhile the twang of a female country singer took the place of conversation. Bearman thumped his hands on the steering wheel in time with the song.
“What are you doin’ out here? You run away or what?” he asked, loud enough to be heard over the music.
“What makes you think I ran away?” Billy looked at Bearman, whose eyes were fixed on what was rapidly becoming less like a road and more like a trail.
“I figure any kid turns up at ten o’clock at night in a greasy joint like that in a town as far back in the bush as Long Valley, he’s gotta be a runaway.”
“We . . . uh . . . my parents and me and my sister, we . . . we just moved here.” Billy wasn’t sure how much he wanted to tell. He’d only known this person an hour or so. “My . . . my stepdad . . . he got a job in the mill. We . . . I mean they . . . they live in a trailer court, the one just outside of town.”
Bearman nodded but kept looking straight ahead. The road had almost disappeared completely and he hunched over the wheel and peered at the narrow band of light the pick-up’s headlights were creating in the bush that was all around them now.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “What were you doing there?”
“I . . . I guess . . . I’m . . .” Billy didn’t finish the sentence and Bearman didn’t ask again. He pulled the truck off what was left of the path they’d been on and into an opening in the trees. He shut the truck off, but left the headlights on.
“We’re here,” he announced and stepped out of the pick-up.
“Where?” Billy climbed out of the truck. There was nothing to distinguish this place from any of the several miles of bush they had just come through.
“I have a camp here,” Bearman said, walking out in front of the truck. “Over there.” He pointed at a black area off to the left and out of the light. “Watch your step.” He tramped off in the direction of the camp Billy couldn’t see.
Billy didn’t relish the idea of being left by himself and hurried after Bearman. They came around a dense growth of underbrush and Bearman snapped on a flashlight. Billy could make out a little clearing. In one corner, a large piece of canvas was braced up against two large spruce trees. In the centre of the clearing, there was a circle of stones for a firepit and a neat pile of cut logs next to it. A couple of stumps near the pit looked like they served as seats. The camp did not look to have been used in some time, and grass had grown over most of the rocks of the firepit.
Bearman handed Billy the flashlight. “I’ll start a fire. You go back to the truck and get your stuff.”
“I don’t have any stuff,” Billy said with a shrug. “I didn’t have a chance to bring anything.”
“Then you can get my gear. There’s a backpack and a couple of sleeping bags in the back of the truck.”
Billy took the flashlight but didn’t move. Bearman had already bent down and was gathering kindling for a fire.
“You . . . you mentioned there are bears around here, didn’t you?” Billy looked around.
“Yeah.” Bearman didn’t look up.
“Oh.” Billy took a deep breath and peered in the direction of the truck. He could just see the lights through the heavy brush. “Pretty dark out here.”
“Mm,” Bearman muttered, continuing to work at the fire.
“I guess it isn’t all that far back to the truck. Not really all that far.”
“And turn those headlights off before you come back,” Bearman directed.
“Yeah, right.” Billy took a few tentative steps in the direction of the truck. “Of course, the quicker I get started, the quicker I’ll get back.” The last remark was for his own benefit and he tried to follow it with a laugh, one of those “no problem here” chuckles, but it came out as more of a squeak than anything.
“I’ll just hurry right along,” Billy told himself but barely got the words out before he went crashing down into a thicket of undergrowth. Some of the branches were prickly and scratched his bare arms.
“Watch your step,” Bearman called.
“Thanks.” Billy pulled himself back to his feet, retrieved the flashlight he’d dropped in the fall and started off again toward the truck’s headlights, moving slower this time.
He got to the pick-up, found the backpack and sleeping bags in the back and dropped them on the ground beside the truck. He opened the driver’s side door and flipped off the headlights.
The sudden blackness of the night shocked him, and he kept one hand on the door of the truck for a long time. “I’ve never even been camping,” he spoke out loud. “This is going to be very strange.”
He bent down and after three tries was finally able to get both the backpack and the sleeping bags gathered up. He was afraid he’d drop the flashlight and, if it broke, would spend the rest of his life, which wouldn’t be a very long time, lost in these woods.
As he stumbled off in the direction he thought Bearman and the camp were, he was cheered to see the flicker of flames through the trees.
“Nothing to worry about,” he spoke again to himself. “Nothing to this. I’ve seen movies about people in the outdoors. I’ll just work my way through this stuff like I’ve been out here my whole life.”
It was exactly at that moment that he tripped over a root and fell again, losing everything in the process.
“Should’ve stayed in the restaurant and had that apple pie,” Billy grumbled, as once more he struggled to his feet and gathered up the gear and flashlight.
By the time he got back to the camp, the fire was a welcome little blaze that was throwing off generous amounts of both heat and light.
“Made it,” he announced.
“I thought maybe you’d gone back to town!” Bearman was sitting on a stump rolling a cigarette. “You can use the brown one,” he said, pointing at one of the sleeping bags.
“Thanks.” Billy set the equipment down and sat on the other stump. He looked around the shadowed campsite for a long time. Then he looked at Bearman. “Uh . . .”
“Yeah?”
“I was just wondering. Where’s the tent?”
“What tent?”
“Well . . . the tent we’ll be sleeping in.”
“No tent. We sleep under the lean-to.” Bearman indicated the canvas wall. “It’ll keep us dry and the fire’s close enough to keep us warm. Nothin’ short of cozy.”
“Cozy,” Billy repeated. “I was thinking more about the bugs . . . and the bears.”
“It’s September. Too cool at night for most of the bugs.” Bearman took a small branch from the fire and, with the red-hot end, lit the cigarette he’d finished rolling. “As for the bears, well, any bear that wanted us bad enough, a tent wouldn’t keep him out anyway, at least not for long.”
Billy stared at the fire and thought about bears and sleeping in a lean-to and staying out of the way of the police. A lot had happened in the hours since he’d tiptoed softly from his room and out the back door of the mobile home.
“Geez,” he said. It was a general comment and not directed at anything in particular. Bearman didn’t answer.
After awhile Billy pulled his gaze away from the mesmerizing fire and looked at Bearman, who was also staring fixedly at the dancing flames. He was still smoking the cigarette, apparently deep in thought.
He’d taken off the coat to reveal a red-checkered shirt and a striped blue bandanna tied around his neck. Billy realized that he’d been wrong in the restaurant. He could